


Celestial Sphere

by SpaceWall



Series: Dawn [6]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aman (Tolkien), Brothers, F/M, Family, Family Feels, Father-Son Relationship, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Fourth Age, Gen, Good Parent Fëanor, Grandparents & Grandchildren, Half-Siblings, Healing, Hope, M/M, Reunions
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-11
Updated: 2018-01-14
Packaged: 2019-03-03 10:29:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13339356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SpaceWall/pseuds/SpaceWall
Summary: Several letters are delivered, bearing unexpected, but not necessarily unwanted, news. Curufinwë Fëanáro is not as doomed as previously thought. It's hopeful and horrible, and terrifying for different people for different reason.In which Fëanor learns more from fifteen minutes alive than he learned from over fifty centuries of being dead





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was a monster to write. To give you some sense of it, this was the second planned work after Out of the Dawn, and it just kept getting pushed further and further back. But no writer can hold onto their baby stories forever, so it's time for this one to leave the nest. 
> 
> I'd like to dedicate this to everyone who ever said they liked my Celebrían, and was told that she would get a big perspective story one day. I'm sorry it took so long!

On the morning they got the letter, Maedhros and Fingon had woken early to go for a swim. They hadn’t received the message until they got back, still slightly damp and laughing in the early morning light. It was shoved under the door, and Maedhros, half paying attention, tore it open at the sight of his own name. Reading the first couple of lines, he dropped it as though it were on fire, and stormed out of the room. Fingon followed him without so much as considering stopping to read the letter. Maedhros stormed only a couple rooms over before collapsing into a heap on the floor. Fingon, despite their dampness, curled close to Maedhros, and waited for him to be ready to speak. 

\--

Gil-galad had been married to Celebrimbor for one-hundred-and-sixteen years on the day that they, and the others, received the letters. In truth, the letter had not been addressed to Gil-galad, but he had opened it thoughtlessly, because it had been in his mailbox, and he had assumed it was congratulations on their anniversary. Reading the contents, he immediately rushed off to find his husband, and, with a strange look on his face, presented it to Celebrimbor. 

Celebrimbor, reading the note, crumpled it in his hand, and told Gil-galad, “If you think, even for a second, I’m going to let this come between us, then you’re wrong. I didn’t marry you just to let my family get in our way now.”

\--

Elrond and Elladan were sitting outside, drinking tea, when Maglor dropped a letter in front of them. 

“Tell me I’m not crazy.” He said, and took a seat with a dramatic flourish. 

“You’re not crazy,” Elladan replied automatically, while Elrond actually picked up the letter and read it. His jaw dropped. 

“We might all be mad,” Elrond told Elladan, and passed over the note. Elladan, reading its contents, nodded mutely. 

“The Valar might be mad,” Maglor retorted. “What ever happened to eternal damnation? Is Fingon to blame for this too?”

Elrond rolled his eyes. “The letter is clear enough, though I’ll admit the context is lacking. The Valar have decided to release your father. Their motives are surely their own, and if we need to know, we’ll be told. What I’m more concerned about is what happens now.”

Maglor, as if considering this eventuality for the first time, swore under his breath. “Maedhros.”

“Celebrimbor.” Retorted Elrond.

“Nerdanel,” Elladan added, causing the other two to look at him. “What? As though this won’t be awful for her. If nothing else, you know how she hates it when you lot fight.”

Maglor shook his head ruefully. “If only that were the worst of it. She hasn’t seen him since… well, you know well enough. And they fought like cats and dogs then, over Ambarussa.”

“I think,” Elrond said, “that we’d better prepare a welcoming party. At least this time, we have some notice.”

\--

Nerdanel burned her letter, just to know that it was real enough to catch. She wept, freely, as it went up in smoke.

\--

They stood in a semi-cricle, in small clusters and clumps. Farthest to the right of the circle were Amrod and Amras, sitting on the ground and speaking in hushed tones. Beside them were Nerdanel and Celegorm. He seemed almost braced for a fight, all tight muscles and worried expressions. Then, all together, were Maglor, Elrond, Celebrían, Gil-galad, and Celebrimbor. Curufin sat beside them, but distinctly alone. He was doing something with a strand of wire, twisting it into shapes, and then, unsatisfied, unwinding it and beginning again. Maedhros and Fingon stood on his other side, heads bowed. Fingon had offered not to come, but Maedhros was stubborn, if nothing else. Lastly, Caranthir sat on the ground, making careful notes in a leather-bound journal. Elrond, from where he sat with his father, wife and friends, felt his eyes pulled to the mist by a strange sound. A figure he had never seen before emerged.

Fëanor resembled Curufin most of all his sons, but they all had some of him in them. The shape of Maedhros’s jaw, Maglor’s passionate eyes (though Fëanor's held more fire again). As those who were seated scrambled to their feet, Fëanor went, as he should have, to Nerdanel. They spoke in Quenya, of a form so old that even Elrond, in all his years of study, had rarely heard it allowed. With the rest of the crowd, he averted his eyes, and tried not to intrude. However, it was impossible to mistake these words for anything other than the apology they appeared to be. After a time, Nerdanel allowed him to hug her, and Fëanor turned to scan the rest of the crowd. 

“I am almost positive you are not all my sons.” He quipped. The delivery was much the same as the way that Maedhros might have said it, with just a hint of a smirk. Then he caught sight of Fingon, who was doing his very best not to be seen behind Maedhros’s height, and added, “you, most certainly.”

“This is Elrond,” Maglor announced loudly, likely in an effort to save Maedhros and Fingon. “He has the ill sense to allow himself to call Maedhros and I father. And this is Celebrían. Elrond had the good sense to marry her.”

Elrond and Celebrían each raised a hand, awkwardly. Fëanor turned those eyes he shared with Maglor upon them. Celebrían seemed to revise her decision to wave, and ducked into a very proper curtsey. Elrond did not bow. 

“Ill sense?” Fëanor queried.

Elrond knew that this was his chance to jump in, and hope fervently that his conjugations were not too far off. “Maedhros and Maglor raised my brother and I from when we were six. That was because they had chased off our parents. But they raised us well, and I bear a great deal of love for them. Maglor would call that ill sense. I call it loyalty.”

Fëanor laughed, a ringing, bell-like sound. Then he turned and looked at Celebrimbor. Without asking, he pulled Celebrimbor into a hug. When he released his grandson, he said, “And who is this, Telperinquar? I would infer that he is with you.” 

Celebrimbor grimaced, but did not correct Fëanor as to the matter of his name. In some ways, it was best that he went first. Maglor or Maedhros would not have taken the mistake so well. “This is my husband, he is called Gil-galad.”

Gil-galad bowed, very properly, and then seemed to make the inverse of the calculation that Celebrían had, and met Fëanor’s eyes dead on. His Quenya was, for one as young as he was, shockingly archaic. “Celebrimbor is trying to save us all from conflict, I believe. It is one of his better traits, being a direct result of his good heart as it is. But I am willing to bet you have three questions right now. One, husband? Two, what is everyone hiding from me? Three, why is Fingon here? I judge myself qualified to answer. Let it be known that my name is Ereinion Gil-galad, and that I was the last High King of the Noldor in Middle Earth. Of all my titles, I bear most proudly that of husband to Celebrimbor. When you last stood on these shore, while such marriages would not have been illegal, they would have been highly uncommon and not the kind of thing that would be welcomed in your house. Well, times have changed. The world is different now. That’s what everyone is keeping from you.”

“I blame you for this,” Maedhros said, in Westron, to Fingon.

“He’s your son too,” Fingon muttered half-heartedly.

“Only when he’s trouble,” Maedhros whispered, but it was too late to stop Fëanor from turning to them, ostensibly with a reprimand on his tongue. Before he could speak, Maedhros switched back to Quenya and blurted, “Fingon and I eloped.”

The silence was deafening. Then Fëanor took a single, threatening step towards Maedhros, and the entire circle went for swords they weren’t carrying. As everyone realized they were unarmed, Fëanor took another step forwards, and said, very quietly, to Fingon, “Get out, Findekáno.” Fingon stared blankly for a second, but Maedhros grabbed his hand, and pulled him close. 

“Where he goes, I go.” Maedhros told his father. 

“And I,” Maglor added, voice dangerously calm. 

“And us,” Celebrimbor murmured. Gil-galad nodded. Elrond and Celebrían were with him a half-second later. 

There was silence for a minute, until Curufin spoke. “Me as well, I suppose. I’ll not be taken for a coward today.”

Caranthir leant down and picked his journal up off the ground. Dusting off the cover, he said, “Well, I suppose if we’re making a stand, I’ll come. Celegorm?”

Celegorm’s only word was, “Aye.”

That left, by Elrond’s count, only Nerdanel, Ambarussa, and Fëanor himself. It seemed like it would stop there, but then Amras spoke. “We’ll not leave you today, Maedhros.” His twin nodded. Fëanor, who had probably been expecting Amras to say he ‘would not leave Fëanor’, flinched. 

That left only Nerdanel. She said nothing, but her actions spoke far louder than anyone’s words could have. Crossing the circle, she walked right past her husband, and grasped Maedhros’s other hand. With a gentle tug, the three of them turned from Fëanor, and began to walk away. The rest of the circle followed, leaving Fëanor in the dust. 

They’d been walking for perhaps thirty seconds when Elrond felt Celebrían touch his mind. I’m considering doing something stupid. She followed this statement with an image of herself, and Fëanor, and the idea of a good scolding. 

Elrond gave her hand an encouraging squeeze, and watched as she slipped away from the crowd, doubling back. Then he pushed forward, to seek out Maedhros. 

\--

Celebrían had taken a long time to understand Elrond’s relationship with his foster-fathers. In fairness, this was largely because Elrond was weary to speak of such things, and not because he didn’t want Celebrían to know. When Elladan and Elrohir were six, she’d come upon him one day, making careful notes in a journal. He had explained that it was to be his own telling of his youth, written in his own words. He was writing it, Elrond had told her, because Elladan and Elrohir deserved to know where their family had come from. He had feared, Celebrían later deduced, that should something happen to Elrond, nobody would have been left who remembered what Maedhros and Maglor had meant to him. But Elrond had been fortunate, in a way. Nothing had happened to him. But something had happened to Celebrían, she had been forced across the sea. And she had lost her children. This, perhaps, was why she felt compelled to go back for Fëanor, as much as her love for his eldest sons was.

“You’re back,” He said, when she sat across from him. “Celebrían, correct?”

Celebrían nodded, in acknowledgement. “That’s right. I’m Elrond’s wife. Though it’s probably more relevant to you that I’m Galadriel’s- Artanis to you- daughter. You can probably guess why I’m here.”

“Because I’m a terrible father.” 

Fëanor was strange. In his mannerisms, his looks, Celebrían could see a great deal of his sons in him. That self-deprecation, not quite crossing the line into humor, for example. She’d seen that a great deal in Maedhros. But he also had a genuine confidence that all of his sons lacked. Celegorm and Curufin, even, were all bluster. And the rest did not even appear confident, most of the time. 

“Not quite. Well, a little, I suppose. Though that’s really between you and them. I’m here to tell you that losing a child is awful. Nothing can prepare you for it. You can marry a half elf, spend your entire marriage hyper-aware of the reality that you could lose your children, and you’ll still never be ready for it.”

Fëanor looked down. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Celebrían did her best impression of her mother, glowering down at him. “No, you’re not. You didn’t know my daughter. You didn’t watch her grow, see her become a confident and mature young elleth. You didn’t know the sound of her laugh, the way she would hide smiles at important meetings. How could you possibly be sorry for my loss?”

Fëanor met Celebrían’s eyes, after a moment, and almost winced. “I have lost some children. In my time.”

This time, Celebrían truly was furious. “No, you didn’t. Your children are right over there. They won’t even make it home for a few hours. Do you think that I wouldn’t go to Arwen if she was right over there? Don’t you dare mock my pain.”

This time, Fëanor didn’t look away. He met her eyes dead on, and said, “I cannot possibly understand what it is to lose a child, and know that all hope is truly gone. But I know loss. Do not think that I do not know that.”

Celebrían gave him a small nod. They sat in silence for a couple of minutes, regarding one another. Fëanor was still dressed as one of the dead. They’d brought clothes for him, but Celebrimbor, the original owner of the clothes, had never handed them over. Why it was that everyone was always having to borrow from Celebrimbor, Celebrían did not know. Possibly, it was simply his impeccable taste. Fortunately, as it was, it was a cold day, and Celebrían had worn layers. She shed her outer robe, and passed it to Fëanor. He wrapped himself in the too-small coat.

When he next spoke, Fëanor sounded a little less archaic. Possibly, this was for Celebrían’s benefit, and she took it as such a gift. “How did it happen? Maitimo and Findekáno, I mean. I do not believe they were thusly… entangled, in my time.”

Celebrían considered the question. “From what I know, they were, even back then. Obviously, I wasn’t there, but the way either of them tell it, if you can get them talking, they were basically in love from when they were babes in arms. But as for your question, it’s a rather fantastical story.” She relayed some of the highlights of Fingon’s determined questing to retrieve Maedhros from Mandos. Then she changed the subject, abruptly. “To answer the question that I can hear you thinking, yes, he makes Maedhros very happy. They’re well matched, in spirit and wit, and they care for one another a great deal. The annals of history will surely show that the only person to ever have gone more above and beyond to prove themselves in the eyes of their in-laws was-”

Celebrían cut herself off before she could say ‘Beren’. Fëanor tilted his head at her, quizzically. “You can reference events involving the silmarils, you know,” he informed her tersely, “I’m quite harmless these days.”

“You seemed perfectly prepared to harm Fingon,” Celebrían snapped before she could think better of it.

Fëanor shook his head as if to clear it. “Perhaps that was ill advised.”

“How did you even know that story, anyways?” Celebrían thought to ask, after a time.

“You aren’t entirely without communication There. Some things, you’re kept up to speed on. Of course, nobody could wait to tell Fëanáro that one of his precious gems had been retrieved from the enemy by a half-Maia girl and her mortal lover. And nobody could hide from me what happened after.”

Celebrían considered this new information. “So, then you do know who Elrond is.”

“Somewhat,” Fëanor admitted, “I know the name. And I know what happened to his parents. But I don’t believe I was ever told that he and my sons were close.”

“They were, and are. Maglor lives with us, and has since he returned here. Though now more because he wants to be with us than because he is unable to be on his own. Elrond and Maglor love one another openly and emotionally. Generally, his relationship with Maedhros is more subdued. But they love one another no less.”

Fëanor was silent for a long moment. He watched the sky, seeing the sun. He squinted at it. Celebrían spared only a glance for the sun, and continued to watch Fëanor. Outwardly, at least in this moment, he did not seem especially monstrous. A tendril of dark hair fell in his face, and he pushed it back with one hand. Eventually, he spoke again. 

“I knew who Gil-galad was as well, in case you were wondering. He has something of Nolofinwë’s look to him.”

“But you would not have called out Celebrimbor’s half-truth if Gil-galad himself had not done so?”

Fëanor shook his head. “No. Or at least, not today. I thought to give Telperinquar enough time to tell me himself. He would have, I believe.”

“Probably,” Celebrían conceded. “Celebrimbor doesn’t like lying. But why were you willing to make that concession for him and not for Maedhros? Haven’t you already put him through enough?”

Fëanor met her eyes, suddenly very angry, and Celebrían forced herself not to look away. She could see the fire in him, the vengeance. But she did not, would not, could not, look away. After a minute, it was Fëanor who broke. He looked away, back up at the sky. Some of the mist, which had been so thick earlier that morning, had cleared. It left the hills and fields around them far less mysterious than they had seemed before, when their small council had been waiting for Fëanor. 

“I was wrong,” Fëanor whispered, so quite Celebrían almost missed it. “About Maitimo- Maedhros- about Findekáno, about the oaths, about everything.”

Celebrian pushed herself to her feet, and offered Fëanor a hand. Looking down at him, she said, “Yes, probably. But I’m not the person who needs to hear that.”

\--

Elrond and Maglor were waiting for them, when Celebrían led Fëanor away from the halls of the dead. Maglor was carrying a small lap-harp, but he wasn’t playing, merely running his fingers thoughtful across the strings. Elrond, for his part, was fidgeting, never sitting quite still. Seeing Celebrían, a wide smile crossed his face. He went to her, and pressed a soft kiss to her lips. Maglor, seeing his father, twitched one hand involuntarily. The discordant noise of the string snapping rang out. 

“Where did the others go?” Celebrían asked, in Sindarin, running a gentle hand across her husband’s face. She found him handsome still, even after so many long years of marriage. 

Elrond shrugged, and it was Maglor who answered. “Amrod and Amras went home, and Celegorm went with them. Everyone else has descended on Lalwen like a swarm of locusts. Her fault for choosing to live out here, I suppose.” He removed the broken string, and considered the harp thoughtfully. This particular instrument had been a gift from Celebrimbor, and was thus more elaborate than it needed to be. It also had a small star carved into it. Typical of Celebrimbor’s work. That was probably why Maglor had brought it to meet his father, even though in sound and style it was not the sort of instrument that he usually favoured. 

“I would speak with you, Maglor, if you would speak with me?” Fëanor emphasised his use of Maglor’s Sindarin name. Maglor put his harp down very gently in the grass, and crossed to speak to his father. 

While they spoke, Elrond kissed Celebrían again. 

“What was that for?” She asked, jokingly, and kissed him in return. 

“Because you’re amazing. And because I’m endlessly grateful for you.”

“And so you should be,” Celebrían quipped. But she didn’t really mean it. She was grateful to have him too. 

While Maglor spoke with his father, Elrond picked up the harp and plucked thoughtfully at the strings. Celebrían let him play only a few notes before she pried the instrument away. Elrond, despite his parentage, had little musical skill. Celebrían played herself, a small ditty that she had played for the children when they were small. While Elrond intentionally stared in the opposite direction, Celebrían snuck more than a few glances at Fëanor and Maglor. Maglor stood between her and Fëanor, so she could read neither of their lips, but she caught a few gestures. At one point, Fëanor grabbed Maglor’s hands and inspected them closely. At another moment, he pushed Maglor’s hair out of his eyes. Finally, they embraced, and Celebrían thought she say a hint of a shake in Fëanor’s shoulder’s, and perhaps the smallest glimmer of a tear in his eye. Eventually, the two of them returned to join Elrond and Celebrían.

“Come now Elrond, we should hurry, or Lalwen will surely have killed all of her guests before we get there,” Maglor joked, his voice lighter than it had been since they had received the news of Fëanor’s release. 

Reclaiming his instrument from Celebrían, Maglor lead them on a winding path across the remainder of this plain, and into the beginnings of the forest. The trees were mostly birch, but Celebrían could see that further in the forest, they began to become interspersed with other species as well. They were still in the mostly birch section when they came upon Caranthir, leaning up against a tree, still writing in that journal of his. His long dark hair shrouded his face, blocking him from the world outside his writing. As they passed him, Caranthir looked up. Seeing Fëanor, his face shifted from a gentle smile to an unreadable mask. 

“I would speak with you, Caranthir, if-” Fëanor began to repeat himself, but got no further than this before Caranthir interrupted.

“Oh, don’t call me that. It’s strange enough hearing it from mother. The world won’t stop spinning if you call me Carnistir. The rest may prefer their names from Middle Earth, being ‘changed by experiences’ and such, but I certainly don’t care as much as to have you change your ways now.”

“To be fair,” Maglor noted, “they were very impactful experiences.”

Caranthir rolled his eyes pointedly at Maglor, and pulled their father off into the trees. Like an afterthought, he chucked his book over his shoulder at Maglor. Maglor fumbled the catch, and it hit him square in the chest. He picked the book up off the ground, where it had fallen, and flipped through the pages. 

“What is it?” Celebrían asked, giving in to her curiosity. 

“A biography,” Maglor told her, looking more closely at the page on which he’d landed. “A biography of us, by the looks of. That weasel.” He flipped to the title’ page. “‘Fëanor and his sons as told by Morifinwë Carnistir, known as Caranthir.’ You’d think that if he was going to steal our life stories, he could at least have done it when we weren’t literally within throwing distance of him.” Maglor flipped back to where Caranthir had left off. “‘As I write this, my family waits for my father. It is rare that we are together, all of us, and rarer still that none of us are fighting. I would say, from as objective a perspective as I can reach, that they seem well. Not, of course, that most people would care about the wellness of my brothers, but I find that I care, rather a lot. And I am not the only one.’ 

“‘We are not alone here. In-laws, obviously, were invited. Fingon and Gil-galad are both here. I cannot tell which one of their husbands is more anxious about the prospect of introducing them to father. Certainly, my father does not like Fingon, but both he and Maedhros are skilled diplomats. They’ll figure it out. Gil-galad, on the other hand, is a markedly unskilled diplomat for one who is famed as a great king. Examples of this can be found on pages…’” Maglor trailed off, seeing Caranthir and his father returning. Caranthir yanked the book from Maglor’s hand, and snapped it closed. 

“Stop being so nosy, Maglor.” Caranthir snapped, looking scathingly at his brother. 

“I’m being nosy? Which one of us is writing a biography of all his brothers without any of us consenting?”

“Oh, you’re one to talk, author of the Noldolantë.”

Maglor made a strangled noise, but Fëanor, who had been watching curiously, put a hand on both of their shoulders, silencing them. He seemed calm, relieved by his conversation with Caranthir perhaps. In silence, their party of five walked on, Caranthir and Maglor clutching their respective means of artistic creation close to their chests. Deeper in the woods now, Celebrían could hear a bird chirping in one of the trees, and a river babbling in the distance. The ground was soft beneath her feet, and she considered briefly the possibility of going barefoot. With her father’s people, perhaps, but not her mother’s. She restrained her wilder urges, and after a time, the home of Lalwen came into view.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quickest chapter turn-about ever! But as a gift to all you lovely people, it has been accomplished. Enjoy!

Celebrimbor and Gil-galad sat on the porch, one mug of tea between the two of them. This was less a gesture of deep romantic attachment and more a reflection on the fact that Lalwen only owned five mugs. She’d taken one for herself, given one each to Maedhros, Nerdanel, and Fingon, this last to Celebrimbor and Gil-galad, and she’d forced Curufin to drink his tea from a glass. The others had dispersed, by Maedhros’s request, so Celebrimbor and Gil-galad were alone. 

“Breathe, love,” Gil-galad said, and gave Celebrimbor a gentle squeeze on the shoulder. He did not seem reassured. “Sometimes, all you need to do is let life happen.”

Celebrimbor exhaled, and breathed deeply. Then, he looked up, and his whole body changed. He straightened his posture, drawing his shoulders back. All emotion wiped itself from his face. Gil-galad, following his eye line, straightened as well, seeing Fëanor emerge from the trees at the back of a small crowd. Gil-galad slowly withdrew his hand from Celebrimbor’s shoulder, feeling strangely caught out. 

Caranthir, Maglor, Elrond and Celebrían walked by, entering the house one-by-one. As Celebrían passed, Gil-galad handed her the mug, and briefly explained the tea situation. He didn’t think that finishing the tea would endear him to Fëanor if he shared, or to Celebrimbor if he didn’t. 

“If Nolofinwë and I were to be described to share one trait, I’m quite sure that the first trait to come to anyone’s mind would be our stubbornness,” Fëanor told them, almost conversationally. Celebrimbor cocked his head, confused by the non-sequitur. “I rather sense that stubbornness was passed along both of our lines.”

“Arafinwë’s too,” Celebrimbor muttered, and when both Fëanor and Gil-galad looked to him, he added, “lest you discount Galadriel and Celebrían. Increasingly, in fact, I’m beginning to wonder if Celebrían is not the most determined of all of us. After all, she alone did not give up on you.” His tone was almost harsh. 

“I would not phrase it like that,” Gil-galad muttered, “It’s not that the rest of you gave up on him. You were just upset. With quite good reason, I might add.” He directed this last at Fëanor, who looked down with some embarrassment. Gil-galad was genuinely surprised by this, and based on the look on his face, so was Celebrimbor. 

Fëanor looked up, and met Celebrimbor’s eyes dead on. “I cannot form any conclusion on this relationship, yet. I don’t have enough information. But, Celebrimbor, you should know that I am very proud of you. If Ereinion Gil-galad is what it takes to make you happy, then I suppose I can get used to it. Ereinion, I feel obligated to tell you that if you ever do any harm to Celebrimbor-”

“The full wrath of Fëanor shall rain upon me. Got it. Though I have to add that I find it highly amusing that you called me Ereinion just now. Never say that Maedhros doesn’t know you.”

Fëanor made a slightly bewildered expression, and asked, “What?”

Gil-galad considered how to explain. “Maedhros is on record saying that he thought you would approve of the name Ereinion.”

Fëanor nodded, thoughtfully, clearly failing to make the connection that almost nobody actually used the name Ereinion, and that this had not been meant as a good thing. There was a pause, as all three tried to think of what to say next. 

“So, you’re Fingon’s son.” Fëanor looked like he’d swallowed a lemon as he changed the topic. Gil-galad had to swallow the beginnings of a laugh. He knew full well that to Fëanor, a remarriage was nothing to laugh at. 

“I am, and legitimate at that. I’d explain, but, frankly, I think you ought to ask Maedhros. After all, he was actually involved in making the decision that led to my birth. I’m merely the product. He picked the name and everything.”

“Ereinion?”

“Gil-galad. Ereinion was Fingon’s choice. Artanáro was my mother’s. A compromise if you will. “

Celebrimbor placed a hand on Gil-galad’s shoulder. “Love, perhaps you could stop talking before my grandfather faints dead away. Sit down, grandfather, you’re looking pale.”

Fëanor sat on the stoop with them, more reflexively than anything else. Gil-galad could see his mind whirring in circles behind his eyes. Gil-galad felt a sudden twinge of guilt at his unnecessary harshness with Fëanor. The whole situation was, after all, a lot to take in. It had been difficult for Gil-galad as well, in the beginning. 

Gil-galad escaped the maze of his own thoughts to find Fëanor looking closely at the rings that he and Celebrimbor each wore. Celebrimbor owned two rings, one wrought by his father’s hand, one by that of Fëanor himself. A wedding ring, and an engagement ring. This day, he had chosen only to wear the engagement ring, which bore the seal of the house of Fëanor. Gil-galad tried not to read too much into this, as he too only wore his engagement ring that day. However, it did not escape his notice that their wedding rings, being a matched set bearing each other’s names inscribed within, would have been far more immediately revealing of their relationship. 

“Well made, Celebrimbor.” Fëanor said, after his time, delivering a verdict. “I like the way you used the shape of the silver to make the light reflect in patterns. It’s a nice touch.”

Celebrimbor bowed his head, clearly pleased. Gil-galad, feeling a need to make up for his earlier rudeness, told Fëanor, “When we became engaged, I managed to beg that ring off Curufin, and proposed first. But Celebrimbor had already made this. He told the whole table that I had managed to find the one craftsman who could always show him up.”

Fëanor nodded in acknowledgement of the compliment. “Though I am loath to admit it, that ring is not one of my greater works. Celebrimbor, by contrast, has quite clearly made something marvelous here. And indeed more than once, if I correctly identified the maker of Elrond’s ring.”

Celebrimbor, who was, to Gil-galad’s great amusement, blushing, gave a rueful laugh. “Would that I in my life had made only the ring Gil-galad now bears. It would have made all of our lives much simpler.”

Fëanor seemed unsure what to do with this dark comment, but Gil-galad knew this side of Celebrimbor well. “Well, I, for my part, am glad that you made the three. I rather suspect that Elrond and their other bearers are as well.” Then, turning to Fëanor, he said, “You’ll find the others have the same tendency to slightly morbid speculation or self-deprecation. Maedhros especially. Though a good deal of that is, I suspect, just his natural sense of humor. His jokes have probably always been very… underhanded.”

Celebrimbor groaned, and gave Gil-galad a half-hearted shove. Gil-galad leaned away in time with the blow, and then leaned back into Celebrimbor’s side. “I’m telling him you said that.” Celebrimbor informed him, looking slightly mortified. 

Gil-galad rolled his eyes. “You cannot possibly think that Maedhros has not already made that joke himself. Underhanded, giving a hand, being handy, lending a hand, going arm-in-arm, brothers in arms, and his personal favourite, hand in marriage. Between him and Fingon, the whole gambit of hand related humor has been run at least thrice over. ‘Why’d you have to marry Maedhros, Fingon?’, ‘Well I already took one hand, dad’” These last two lines were delivered in Gil-galad’s best impressions of Fingolfin and Fingon, which caused Fëanor to snort in an undignified manner. 

Celebrimbor, smiling as well, told his grandfather, “It is a way we deal with it, it’s true. But such is the manner of life. Everything stings less if you don’t take yourself overly seriously. Sometimes, it’s the only way.” He abruptly changed subject. “I think it’s time for you go talk to them now, but first, a word of advice? Or, well, a fact you should know, I suppose? This is non-negotiable, for them. No matter what you say, no matter what you do, Fingon is going nowhere without Maedhros and vice-versa. I do not believe that there is a force in the universe strong enough to pry them apart, and I have seen things, horrors, that you cannot even begin to imagine. They are almost as one being with two heads, they are so close. If you attempt to force them apart, you will assuredly lose both. This, we know, for Fingolfin has already tried anger, and it did little but sour his relationship with Fingon.”

“I am not Nolofinwë.”

Gil-galad chimed in. “In this respect, I fear, you may be more alike than not. Though, Celebrimbor, it would be unfair not to give Fingolfin his due. He has come quite far these past few centuries, and remember that he was good to us on the occasion of our wedding, and made peace with the rest of our family.” 

Celebrimbor rested his head on Gil-galad’s shoulder, and neither of them said anything more, as Fëanor stood, braced himself, and with the look of a man going to his execution, entered the home of Lalwen. 

\--

Fingon cocked his head, and listened to the sound of the front door of Lalwen’s home closing. There was a moment of silence before Lalwen, who was sitting in her own kitchen, spoke to the newcomer. 

“Hello, brother,” she said, ominously. Maedhros, who was beside Fingon on the couch, winced. 

Fëanor said something too quiet for them to hear, and Lalwen replied, “You are an absolute bastard.”

This time, they heard Fëanor’s response. “From my perspective,” he said, “you are all bastards.”

It was Fingon’s turn to wince. Lalwen retorted, “Oh, grow up, Fëanáro. We’re not to ones who’ve done wrong here. You owe me. You owe Nolofinwë and Arafinwë and you can damn well learn to appreciate them.”

There was a long, awkward, silence. Then Fëanor whispered something neither of them could hear, and Lalwen replied, “Oh, Fëanor.” There was great sympathy in her voice. Fingon wondered what he had said to motivate such a change in her demeanor. 

There was the sound of a chair pulling back, and then the stomp of Lalwen’s heavy boots across the floor. Then, silence, followed by the sound of bare feet approaching them. Fingon prepared to stand, to provide the illusion that he and Maedhros were not essentially cuddling. But Maedhros grabbed him by the arm, one handed, and kept him in place. Fëanor entered the room, and they both stilled. 

He looked tired, more than anything else. He was still wearing the grey robes of the newly returned, along with Celebrían’s high-necked coat, which was far too small on him. His eyes carried the same fire that they always had, but in the rest of his demeanor, he seemed almost subdued. None of them spoke for a long moment, but Maedhros’s fingers dug tight into Fingon’s arm, betraying his nervousness. 

“Maedhros,” Fëanor said, the Sindarin awkward on his tongue. He spoke with a notable accent, one which Maedhros himself had once possessed, but had mostly lost over years in Beleriand. It was notably Fëanorian, marked by an unfamiliarity with the ‘s’ at the end of Maedhros’s name. The unfamiliar syllable was garbled in his mouth, coming closer to ‘Maedrosh.’

“Atar,” Maedhros said, his voice shaking just a little. 

“Fingon,” Fëanor said, turning lively eyes on him. Fingon did his very best not to flinch. “I am given to understand that I owe you some thanks for saving my son. More than once.”

Fingon, at a loss for words, took a moment to respond. “Yes,” he eventually came up with, “I did that.”

“Then I thank you.” Fëanor took a step closer, but made no move to sit in the one remaining chair in Lalwen’s sitting room. “Gil-galad and Celebrimbor made it clear that this was not a subject for negotiation, so I shall make no attempts to persuade you. But I must ask, why?”

Fingon opened his mouth, assuming that the question was, ‘why did you save Maedhros,’ but Maedhros himself jumped in first. “Because he is the kindest person I know, save perhaps Elrond. Because he is unquestionably brave. Because he makes me laugh, makes me smile, helps me to live my life. Why does anyone marry anyone? Because I love his eyes, because I love his hands on my skin, because I want to spend the rest of my life with him, because when I was returned to life, he held me, without judgement, without fear, without the words I did not have. I don’t know.”

Fëanor looked down at his hands, which were unlined, far different from how they had once been, crisscrossed with callouses and scars from working his craft. “You did not tell me, yonya.”

“How would you have reacted if I had?”

Fëanor considered this. Finally, he spoke, looking at Maedhros as he did so. “I don’t know. In truth, I would not have wanted, would not have chosen this for you. But you are my son. Do not forget that. There will be a place for you in my heart until Arda Remade and after. As long as I have a mind with which to think.”

Maedhros’s grip slowly uncurled from Fingon’s arm, though his hand remained there. With his other hand, he gestured towards the empty chair. Fëanor took the invitation, and sat. After a time, he spoke again. 

“Gil-galad said to ask you about his parentage, Maedhros.” The pronunciation was far better this time. Say nothing about Fëanor if not that he was a master of the linguistic arts. 

Maedhros tapped the fingers of his free hand on his knee. “He would. Troublemaker.”

Fingon, taking some pity on their son, said, “To be fair, would you have rather had him explain it? Or me? Or Caranthir?”

Maedhros, turning to look at Fingon, grumbled, “Why does Caranthir have to be the third choice?”

“He’s nosy.”

Fëanor cleared his throat, and they both turned back to look at him. Maedhros, looking at the ground, spoke. “I was the one who urged Fingon to marry,” he told his father. “He would not have done it without my consent, and I knew well that it would be good for the Noldo to have a queen, a crown prince. No offence to Turgon, who was a great king in his own right, but if I had only a word to describe his role in broader society, ‘present’, would not be that word. The people needed someone to look to, a future. Fingon could give them that. And he did. Gil-galad was a great king. He ruled longer and more peacefully than any of his ancestors.” Maedhros trailed off.

Fingon took up the tale from there. “My wife was a great elleth. I knew her from the Grinding Ice, and before that in Tirion. She was loyal to her bones, and dutiful in her soul. When Maedhros told me to get married, I knew I had to find someone who bore no ill will to Maedhros, and would not be upset that her marriage was merely a sham to bring some hope to her people. Well, there was one woman that I knew who loved her people beyond all else, who had no desire for the ties of marriage, and, on account of a long-ago friendship with Maglor, bore little ill-will towards Maedhros. So I explained the situation, and asked her to marry me. As they say, the rest is history.”

Here, Maedhros jumped in again. “They do not mention her in the history books, and rarely even is the true parentage of Gil-galad mentioned. More’s the pity. She passed shortly after Gil-galad was born, fighting orcs, and, in a letter she had written to me to be delivered in the event of her death, told me to, and here I use her words not mine, ‘marry my husband, you bastard, or I shall return as an unhoused spirit and haunt you until the day you die, and should you be reborn without marrying, I shall haunt you again.’” 

Fëanor seemed to turn the words over in his head, end over end, until finally he said, “Did you tell her what happened to my mother, when Finwë remarried?”

Maedhros nodded. “Several times. Last I spoke to her was on the day I left the halls. I’ll admit to begging to see her, before I was released, to ask for her consent one last time. She was the only person to whom I spoke, the whole time I was there. Everyone else hurt too much. She was still willing, even millennia later. Truly, she was and is peerless.”

There was a long, and awkward pause. Fëanor looked down, his unpinned hair falling in his face. He pushed it back with an irritated noise. Maedhros, silently, pulled a hairpin out of his own hair and handed it to his father. This caused a braid Fingon had put in earlier to fall, but perhaps it was for the greater good. Fëanor pinned his hair behind one ear. 

“Would you tell me of the wedding?”

Fingon, grateful for the breaking of the silence, was quick to answer. “A small affair, but that was what we wanted. Our mothers were there, and Lalwen to stand for you and my father. The only other guests were Gil-galad, and Celebrimbor. That was before the… reunification of the family really started in earnest, so most weren’t speaking to either myself or Maedhros.”

“Reunification?” Fëanor asked, half-curious, half as though he was tasting the sound of the word. 

Maedhros nodded. “When I was… returned, the member of the house of Finwë who the most people spoke to was Nerdanel, who, by virtue of her unparalleled goodness, managed to easily take the record. Beyond that, Curufin and Celegorm spoke regularly only to one another, as did Amrod and Amras. Caranthir spoke only to Finrod. Even within the houses of Fingolfin and Finarfin was there division.”

Fingon took over. “I essentially didn’t speak to anyone in the family for a century. Suffice it to say that did not make me popular.”

“It wasn’t just you. Idril and Aredhel were hardly on speaking terms. In fact, Aredhel was barely on speaking terms with any of the family. Just Celegorm.”

Fëanor tapped on the arm of his chair. “You mentioned a reunification.”

Fingon nodded. “It happened slowly, over the past few centuries. We could debate why. Personally, I attribute the success almost entirely to Elrond, Celebrían, Celebrimbor and Gil-galad. Maedhros and I bred more dissent than good will between the branches of this family. But Gil-galad, Celebrían, Elrond and Celebrimbor held none of the prejudices that had torn us apart for so long. They were inseparable, the four of them, and in being so, they brought their family back together.”

“None of them could have done it alone. Celebrían, Gil-galad and Celebrimbor alone didn’t do it. Elrond was the catalyst, and I don’t just say that because I’m invariably proud of everything Elrond does. When he arrived here, he just… refused to give up any of his family. He brought me to his second meeting with Eärendil, he made peace between our family and Turgon’s. It was for love of Elrond that Maglor was able to return to us, I believe.”

Fingon turned to regard his husband, fully. For the first time in the conversation, his face was delightfully alive. Fingon resisted the urge to kiss him, as he might have done in different company. 

“You ought to give Gil-galad his due,” Fingon interjected. “He convinced Curufin to make peace with Celebrimbor and the rest of us. And it was his idea to invite every living member of the House of Finwë to the wedding. The rest of us were all sure it was a terrible idea, but Gil-galad insisted, and almost everyone actually showed up, for love of him or of Celebrimbor. And none of them fought. It was amazing.”

Fëanor, who had been staring blankly, asked, “and who blessed that match?”

“They were more traditional than us,” Fingon told him, “They actually managed to find a male family member to bless the match. I stood for Gil-galad, and Nerdanel stood for Celebrimbor. Given how close they are, it seemed a good choice. Curufin was behind them too, completely, but since Gil-galad doesn’t really have any mother-figures in his life, they decided to each just choose one person. Curufin- he’s loath to admit it, but he and Gil-galad get on very well. I think it’s about half that they both love Celebrimbor, and half that neither will blunt their tongue for the other.”

Fëanor laughed. “Yes, I’ve heard Gil-galad’s sharp tongue. He doesn’t shy away from much, does he?”

Maedhros smiled, ruefully. “Not for the comfort of others. Except Celebrimbor. To hear Celebrimbor tell it, he and Gil-galad were literally friends for centuries without Gil-galad ever asking about any of his family because he was worried it would make Celebrimbor uncomfortable. “

“I wish that we were something that Celebrimbor did not have to be ashamed of,” Fëanor muttered. It was a wish Maedhros had made more than a dozen times. 

Fingon told him, “Celebrimbor isn’t ashamed, though. That’s the thing. He must be the only person in the whole family who still wears his house sigil regularly. He’s not blind. He knows the history- he was there. But he’s unapologetic about it. Always has been.”

Fëanor looked covetously at their cups of tea. Maedhros stood. “I’ll get you a cup,” He said, and, in a risky move, left his husband and his father alone together. 

“Whose idea was it?” Fëanor said, once Maedhros was gone.

Fingon, who did not speak fluent Fëanor, asked, “What?”

Fëanor rolled his eyes. “The set up. Having me have a lineup of meetings with everyone. This has got to have been a plan.”

The pieces clicked together. “Ah, yes. That would have been Elrond’s idea, I believe. Elrond and Celebrían’s. He broached the idea with us, and we laid the plan together. Ambarussa and Celegorm weren’t on board. They felt that any grievances they have with you could be aired later.”

Fëanor looked down at his hands. “And Nerdanel and Curufinwë? Where are they?”

Fingon debated answering, but finally said, “They’re out back. Curufin said that he wouldn’t speak with you if you didn’t treat Celebrimbor well. Nerdanel didn’t say much. I’d say she worried about Maedhros, but I won’t pretend to know what’s on in her mind. Her life has been hard enough without me commentating on it.”

Fëanor looked down, seeming ashamed. And perhaps he should have, been. It was he who had made Nerdanel’s life so difficult, isolated her from her friends and her family. If Fëanor had chosen differently, been kinder or more cautious, then Nerdanel would not have had to be alone for thousands of years. It was a terrible price to pay, for marrying someone who made mistakes.

“I don’t deserve her,” Fëanor said. This confession easily number among the top ten strangest things that had ever happened to Fingon. 

“We don’t have to deserve love,” Fingon told him. “If I’ve learned anything from Maedhros, it would be that. He always tells people, ‘You don’t have to deserve love, and you don’t have to earn support. You don’t have to deserve family’.”

Fëanor smiled ruefully. “I don’t deserve Maedhros either.”

“Nobody deserves Maedhros, we’re all just blessed to have him.”

They both shut up before Maedhros could re-enter the room. The look Fëanor gave him was unmistakeably fond, and Fingon hoped Maedhros could see that. 

Fëanor stood, taking his tea from Maedhros. “I think it’s time for me to go find your mother. Maedhros, yonya- I’m sorry for the person I was, for the person who took your life and your choices from you.”

Maedhros embraced him, carefully. He was at least an inch taller than his father, and their hug was accordingly awkward. Fëanor turned to leave, and was almost out the door before Fingon realized his mistake. 

“Wait!” He cried, and both father and son turned to stare at him. Fingon cleared his throat and tried not to look like a fool. “I- if you’ll forgive the impertinence, I know it’s really none of my business but- I think you should seek out my father, at some point. I believe he would still mend things between you, if that were possible.”

Fëanor’s thoughts were well hidden, but the emotion on his face was not. The look he gave Fingon was one of true regret. “Perhaps,” he murmured. “Perhaps.”

\--

Fingolfin was in his study, when the knock came at the door. Since neither his wife nor children were there to answer it, he went to the door himself. The large figure in the doorway shuffled back and forth awkwardly without speaking. 

“Hello, Celegorm,” Fingolfin said courteously, trying not to let his surprise show, “what can I do for you?”

Of all Fëanor’s sons, Fingolfin held the most goodwill towards Celegorm. For one thing, Celegorm was, in looks and actions, the least like his father of the bunch. For another, he was almost an extra brother to Aredhel. Without Celegorm, she would have been very lonely.

“My father is back,” Celegorm said monotonously.

“I know.” Fingolfin strove to be patient. “I was under the impression you and your brothers went to meet him.” Certainly, Fingon had gone, though Fingolfin had urged him not to.

“We did. It immediately devolved into petty squabbles, so Ambarussa and I left.” This was probably the most consecutive words Fingolfin had ever gotten out of Celegorm. 

With Celegorm and Aredhel both, it was best to be direct. “Why are you here, Celegorm? If you’re looking for Aredhel, she isn’t here.”

“No,” Celegorm said, “I was looking for you. I think you should come talk to my father.”

“Why?” Fingolfin asked, knowing that there was little that could convince him to do so. He had promised himself to never again open his heart to Fëanor’s ridicule. 

“Because he apologized to Maedhros and Fingon.”

Fingolfin tried and failed to process this information. “I thought you said that it immediately broke into petty squabbles?”

“It did. Then we left, and then he apologized. He went home with my mother. Just- trust me, okay?”

“Alright,” Fingolfin said, fully intending to ignore Celegorm’s advice the second he was gone. 

Celegorm must have noticed something, because he said, “It’s important.”

“Why?” Fingolfin demanded, too harshly. 

Celegorm met his eyes. “Because you two started the hole in this family, together. It’s up to you two to fix it.” 

“Celegorm, why do you care?”

Celegorm snapped. “I care. I care about Aredhel, and I care about Maedhros, and I care about Celebrimbor. Every minute that this family is broken, if hurts the people I care about. You can fix it, so fix it.”

He turned on his heel, and stormed off. Fingolfin, as if in a trance, returned to his office, wrote a note explaining where he was going, saddled a horse, and went. The ride to Nerdanel’s home took the better part of the afternoon, and was mostly through empty countryside. Every person he passed, Fingolfin wondered if they knew, about Fëanor’s return, about Fingolfin’s shame. He kept his head down, and his hood up. 

At the door, he only had to knock once before it flew open. Fingon looked up at his father, blankly. He and Maedhros seemed like they were on their way out, in riding gear and carrying packs. 

“I-“ Fingon said, helplessly. Maedhros put a hand on his arm, silencing him. 

“We’re just on our way out,” Maedhros told his father-in-law. “Good luck.” He gave Fingolfin a reassuring grin, and pulled Fingon away.

Fëanor was in the sitting room, with Curufinwë and Nerdanel. He looked calm, sane. The passion that he carried was there, of course, as it had always been, but there was none of his anger, none of his senseless rage. As Fingolfin watched, he leant forward to draw something in response to a question of Curufin’s. His hands were steady, though he did not seem altogether pleased with the final product. Fingolfin stood a long time in the doorway before any of the three noticed him. He found himself paralysed, for in all his long ride, he had not been able to think of a single thing to say. 

Curufin noticed him first, and inhaled gutturally in shock. His parents looked up at this noise, and all three of them stared at Fingolfin. He made an inarticulate gesture, and managed to mutter something about Maedhros and Fingon letting him in. Fëanor stood, and for one, mad second, Fingolfin wondered if he was going to be punched. Instead, his brother took his hands, offered an excuse to Nerdanel and Curufin, and guided him outside. They walked for some time, out into the field in no particular direction. 

“I hope you don’t mind,” Fëanor said, in that clear, logical way of his. “It’s just much easier for us to have this talk without being walked in on by any of a half-dozen people.”

“I understand,” Fingolfin replied. He found himself unable to meet Fëanor’s eyes. They shone too brightly to look at, like the sun. As if reading his mind, Fëanor looked up. 

“I don’t know how I feel about it,” he announced, without context. Only years of experience allowed Fingolfin to discern what he meant. He didn’t know how to feel about the sun. 

“It’s not the same.”

“No, it’s not.”

They were silent for some time, until Fingolfin worked up the courage to say, “I would have thought you’d like it.” Fëanor turned his gaze back to his brother, and raised an eyebrow. Fingolfin elaborated, “I mean the craftsmanship. Though also the egalitarianism, come to that.”

“Egalitarianism,” Fëanor repeated, slowly. It wasn’t a proper word in Quenya or Sindarin, and Fingolfin didn’t really remember where he’d picked it up. 

“The fact that it’s for everyone,” Fingolfin explained. “That its light can’t be hidden from any of the Quendi, or any mortal, come to that.”

Something seemed to soften in Fëanor. “Yes,” he muttered, “I like that.”

They examined one another, silently. Last time they had seen one another, Fëanor had been wearing a crown, and the both of them had been broken-hearted, exhausted and furious with the world in turn. Now, in the beautiful place, they were uncrowned, unbroken, and at peace. It was so different that they seemed to be barely even the same people. 

“I understand my return has caused some… upset,” Fëanor finally announced, breaking the silence. 

Fingolfin smiled at the understatement. “You have no idea. Thankfully, that sort of thing is mostly Arafinwë’s problem. We’ve gotten plenty of experience by now though. After all, we did have to do all seven of your sons.”

Fëanor made a face. “I hope you were not too hard on them.”

“It varied. For Caranthir, we just sort of let poor Finrod deal with it. That was a disaster, because he wanted to stay in Tirion. After him, everyone else really minded themselves. They’re a remarkably respectful group of people, your sons.”

Fëanor smiled. “And yours, at least, from the sample size I have.”

Pettily, Fingolfin couldn’t stop himself from saying, “I don’t recall that you always thought that.”

Fëanor’s look was absolutely scathing, as was his tone. “And I don’t recall you having much respect for my sons either, but these things can change.”

There was another long pause, this one more awkward than the last. This time, Fingolfin was the one who broke it. “I’m sorry about everything.”

Fëanor’s eyes bored into him, their fire scanning right to Fingolfin’s very soul. Finally, he replied, “I’m sorry too. About everything.”

They didn’t embrace, because such a thing was not and had never been in the nature of the relationship. 

“I’m sorry about your mother,” Fingolfin added, since this seemed to merit its own apology. 

“Don’t.” Fëanor snapped. Then he seemed to reconsider, and reached out to touch Fingolfin’s arm, awkwardly. “Don’t apologize to me about that. It shouldn’t be something you feel obligated to apologize for. It’s not- it’s not on you.”

There had been a time when Fëanor had blamed him for that, just as he had been blamed for everything that had gone wrong for Fëanor in his entire life. Fingolfin felt tears rise in his eyes. He tried fruitlessly to blink them away. Fëanor reached out and wiped the tears away. His hands were gentle, and un-calloused as they had never been before in all the time Fingolfin had known him.

“I’m sorry that I believed this was your fault for so many years, and I’m sorry if I ever made you believe that too.”

Fingolfin found himself sobbing, unable to help the tears that streaked down his face. Ashamed, he buried his face in his hands so Fëanor couldn’t see it. Fëanor made a pained noise, and then transform, soothing, shushing and hovering as a parent might. He pulled Fingolfin tight to his chest, and began to weep too. There, two of the most powerful and respected Quendi to ever be born held one another, and mourned their loses, shared and individual. 

“I missed you,” Fingolfin whispered into Fëanor’s hair. “Even after everything, I missed you.”

Because they were having two very different experiences, Fëanor continued to murmur, over and over, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

They stood, repeating their refrains in an open field for all the world to hear, though very little of it was listening. Had the rest of the world been able to hear, some would have had a great deal to say. Arafinwë would have been unspeakably relieved, Maedhros hopeful, and Fingon jubilant. Celebrían would have said, “Family is for healing, and for support. This is a blessing.” Caranthir would have laughed, but it would have not been cruel. As for Míriel the Broidress, she would have, as any parent would, been unspeakably proud of her son, for at last finding peace with his kin. Of all these people, she was the only one who would truly witness what happened that day, as was her given task. So Míriel witnessed, and wove, and did not speak her pride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this was a monster to write, and went through about a dozen incarnations before I realized that it had to end with Fingolfin, of course, and this was created. I just want everyone to be happy, okay? (Celegorm in this chapter is like literally me).
> 
> Up next- Probably a few shorts with Nerdanel. That's gonna be more of an ongoing thing, and the next proper story is probably going to be about Celegorm and Aredhel (bffs)

**Author's Note:**

> Have thoughts? Found errors? Talk to me! I like nothing more than the sound of my own fingers click-clacking away.


End file.
